The Perfume Collector

by Kathleen Tessaro

  ‘Well, who do I have to speak to about it?’

  He thought a moment. ‘God, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ She sighed. ‘God and I are not on speaking terms.’

  ‘Mademoiselle, every day you ask me the forecast. Every day you want it to rain. Why?’

  ‘Because all this sunshine is uncivilized, François. Great conversations cannot be had by a poolside. I long for the roll of thunder, the darkening sky, the sudden eruption of a cold refreshing shower!’

  She sighed again.

  ‘You have a unique view,’ François pointed out.

  ‘Also,’ she added, ‘there is nothing more morbid than being unhappy while the sun shines down on you.’ She opened her handbag and took out a pair of sunglasses. ‘I require rain, François. Please see what you can do.’

  And with that she turned and walked away.

  Both Valmont and François watched as she strolled past the doorman and out of the main entrance.

  ‘Who is that young woman?’ Valmont asked.

  ‘Mademoiselle Dorsey.’ François leaned his chin in his palm. ‘She’s travelling with an Englishman named Lamb. From London. I believe they have a lot of rain in London.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, they do.’

  The receptionist returned, handing a key to the porter. ‘Sir, Marcel will take you to your room.’

  Valmont followed the porter to the lift.

  There was something familiar about Mademoiselle Dorsey. Something in her voice, in her scent.

  Valmont began to wonder if it was possible to make a perfume that smelled like a warm summer pavement after a sudden rain shower; both coolly damp and heat-soaked at the same time. It was an interesting proposition. He liked the idea of two opposing temperatures; two contrasting emotional states, rubbing up against one another, pulling in different directions.

  They stepped inside the lift and the doors closed, sealing off the din of the lobby.

  And suddenly Valmont didn’t feel quite as irritable or tired any more. His imagination was engaged, whirring on various combinations and possibilities. Without ever speaking to him directly, the girl in the lobby had posed an interesting question – one he was determined to answer.

  It was three days later when he saw her again, after dinner.

  Valmont stood a moment at the entrance to the ballroom, observing.

  She was sitting at a table with half a dozen other people. The ballroom was crowded. A band was playing, couples were dancing, waiters scrambled to provide a constant supply of champagne and large platters of fresh iced oysters and caviar. She was wearing a simple silver sheath cut within an inch of indecency, curving round her slender shoulders and then falling away to expose the smooth white skin of her back and just a hint of the soft round curve of her breasts. She had on no jewellery, only a pale wash of lipstick, and again the black halo of hair was arranged so that it looked almost wind tossed. Yet her dark tresses shone, framing her face with a soft, unearthly light. Next to the other women at the table, with their diamonds, heavy strands of pearls, and meticulously groomed faces and hair, she seemed feral and bewitching. The impact of her beauty lay in her confidence and her utter lack of self-awareness. In contrast, others appeared to be trying too hard, careful and staid.

  She was laughing, speaking in French and English at the same time; making party hats out of the dinner napkins for the French Secretary of the Interior and his wife. A few seats over, a handsome older gentleman watched as she launched into an impromptu rendition of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ which was soon echoed by the tables around them and then accompanied by the band. Valmont concluded it must be the French Secretary’s birthday – at least he hoped it was.

  Then he stopped one of the waiters and had a word with him, pulling a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dinner jacket.

  The waiter wove his way through the crowded room towards Mademoiselle Dorsey.

  She looked up at him as he delivered the handkerchief and indicated whom it had come from.

  Valmont took a cigarette case from his pocket, lit one and leaned against the portico.

  He watched as she rose, walking slowly towards him, slipping easily through the crowds.

  ‘Sir,’ she stopped in front of him; her eyes were a curious shade of grey-green, ‘you have given me a hanky.’

  He nodded. ‘Did you by any chance smell it, mademoiselle?’

  She frowned a little, lifting it to her nose. Her face changed. ‘Rain!’

  He took another drag. ‘Actually, summer rain on a warm pavement. But who’s arguing?’

  She inhaled again. ‘You made it rain,’ she said softly, delighted.

  ‘Everyone needs a respite from the sun.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stood, looking at him quite boldly, a half-smile on her face. ‘Where are the rest of my storm clouds, monsieur?’

  ‘In a bottle upstairs.’

  ‘And what is the ransom for this bottle?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. All terms are negotiable, Eva.’

  She tilted her head. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  ‘Am I so easy to forget?’

  She took the cigarette gently from his fingers, inhaled, and gave it back to him. ‘I would like very much to see the bottle of rain, Monsieur Valmont.’

  Valmont’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What about your companions?’

  ‘My friends can do very well without me.’

  He held out his arm and she took it. And he felt his entire body flush with warmth at the proximity of her. Her delicious natural odour was intensified by the warm night; he could detect each layer, each nuance.

  Valmont took her to his tiny room. The curtains had been left open; the blazing lights of Monte Carlo below illuminated the shadows, filling the room with a blue glow.

  He reached for the light switch but she stopped him. ‘No, I prefer it this way.’ And without waiting for an invitation, she curled into a corner of the bed, propping the pillows around her.

  He pulled over a straight-backed wooden chair and sat across from her, unsure of what to do next.

  This wasn’t the same little girl he’d met in New York. And beautiful women didn’t frequent his bedroom in Paris. She possessed an ease and confidence he could only mimic.

  Taking his cigarette case from the breast pocket of his evening jacket, he lit one with as much poise as he could muster. ‘I didn’t even recognize you at first. I thought, “I know that girl,” and yet for ages I couldn’t think how.’

  She stretched out, smiling to herself. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. And what have you been doing with yourself, besides creating storm clouds for me?’

  ‘I am a perfumer, of course.’ He took another drag. ‘Easily the best in Paris.’

  ‘Of course!’ She laughed. ‘How could I doubt it? It’s just, I wonder that I haven’t heard of you?’

  She struck a nerve. He straightened. ‘I have my own shop now, in Saint-Germain.’

  ‘Bravo! Is that Madame’s idea?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘How is she? She really was the most incredible creature! And, more importantly, how is business for the best perfumer in Paris?’

  ‘It’s been a great success, actually.’

  She looked round the tiny room. ‘And yet you have such a refreshingly unostentatious style!’

  He felt his cheeks flush and was glad of the darkness.

  ‘Have you brought me here to seduce me?’ Her voice was low and smooth.

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded disappointed, leaning her cheek on her palm. ‘Don’t I interest you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I mean, I didn’t mean to imply…’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s just, I… I’m a man without much experience in these matters. I’ve had a business to attend to. A career to build.’

  ‘So why am I here?’

  He pulled himself up, re-crossed his legs. ‘You… well, the truth is, I overheard your conversation a few days
ago in the lobby and your request for rain inspired me.’

  ‘It’s not the first time you’ve made a perfume for me,’ she reminded him.

  ‘No, no, it isn’t.’

  ‘Are you hoping I’ll buy this from you?’

  Her bluntness caught him off guard. He felt transparent, made of cellophane. ‘Well… that’s not quite what I meant…’

  She cocked her head to one side. ‘Why not?’

  She was so much more adept at this sort of thing than he was; so unabashed.

  Instead, he reverted to what was familiar; he took the small vial of perfume from his travelling case of ingredients. ‘Would you like to know how I made it?’ He tried to assume an authoritative, professional tone.

  ‘Oh, Andre!’ She shook her head. ‘You’re not quite honest, are you? I understand that. You and I can’t afford to be, can we?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ He stared at her, her face illuminated by the city lights like a ghostly apparition.

  ‘But you must tell me the truth. Look, I’ll make a deal with you – if you’re honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. And believe me, there aren’t many people in this world I would trust.’

  He hesitated. But the temptation to confide in someone was too great.

  ‘My shop is failing,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t know how to sell things – especially things that I haven’t even made yet.’ He sank back into his chair. ‘In truth, Eva, I loathe people. I always have.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I loathe idle chit-chat. I despise idiots. I can’t bear to sit and talk to people.’

  ‘Imagine that!’

  He smiled in spite of himself; she could always see right through him. Relaxing further, he took a deep drag. ‘To me the most irritating part of the business of making perfume is the client. The truth is, I can only really create my best work when I’m moved by someone, as I am by you. I own a shop but I hate customers. Isn’t that mad? And now I’m here, in Monte Carlo, to do little more than prostitute myself to the very people for whom I have the least respect. I am out of money. I am out of time. And now I loathe myself for coming here at all.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ She tipped her head back, laughing. ‘What a tragic tale!’

  Her sarcasm popped his grandiosity like a bubble; he couldn’t help but laugh too.

  She spread her arms wide. ‘Welcome to the brothel, my dear Andre! The difficulty is not that you must prostitute yourself but that you do it so badly. You need these people and whether they know it or not, they need you. But if you’re going to get paid to swallow, my dear, you’d better learn not to choke.’

  Shocked, he coughed and spluttered on the smoke of his cigarette.

  ‘You need to learn the art of seduction,’ she continued. ‘After all, prostitutes aren’t paid for ambivalence. There is only one rule – you can sell me anything as long as you adore me.’

  ‘But I… I don’t know anything of these matters. I don’t even want to. I only know how to make perfume.’

  ‘Yes, but I do. And let me tell you something – your arrogance is justified – you are a genius. With the smallest effort and guidance you could easily be the best perfumer in Paris.’

  ‘Really?’ He’d doubted himself; her words were like a balm to his bruised and smarting ego.

  ‘I know all about these people. Their habits and secrets, how they think and feel, every single Achilles heel. And let me tell you, they’re not complicated. You must trust me, Andre.’

  ‘Why would you help me?’

  ‘Because,’ there was something both tender and melancholy in her tone, ‘you made it rain.’

  He stared at her, enthralled. ‘But tell me, what are you doing here? How did you come to be so, so exquisite?’

  She stood up. And with a little shake of her shoulders, her dress slipped to the floor. She was naked except for her silver sandals, which she kicked off as she came closer, stopping in front of him. She was radiant, her skin like white marble in the balmy darkness.

  Reaching out, he dared to run his fingers over the smooth arch of her back. ‘Eva…’

  She held up a finger. ‘Shhhh!’

  Leaning forward, she kissed him. Valmont felt his body warm with the heat of an unfamiliar desire.

  Pulling her to him, he closed his eyes, burying his face against her. He breathed her in – each moist hollow, every sumptuous curve – inhaling hungrily the vast, varied landscape of her skin.

  She sat in the alcove of the window seat, smoking by the open window.

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’ Valmont propped himself up on his elbow, jamming a pillow under his head. ‘Who are you travelling with? Please say it’s not your husband.’

  ‘No, it’s not my husband. It’s an associate.’

  ‘Associate?’ He pulled the sheet across his bare torso. ‘What does that mean?’

  She exhaled. ‘He’s the man I work with, Lambert. Although he goes by Lamb here. The man who taught me my trade.’

  Again, the word struck him as odd. ‘You have a trade?’ He’d assumed she was someone’s lover or mistress.

  ‘Do you doubt it?’ She looked across at him, challengingly. ‘You’re not the only one who’s come to Monte Carlo for business. This place is full of people on the make – gigolos, prostitutes, salesmen, schemers, social climbers, snobs.’

  ‘You make it sound like a cesspool!’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘Just the normal entourage of the rich. As for me, I have a number of skills. But mostly I count cards.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m a professional gambler, Andre.’

  ‘A professional gambler!’ He wanted to laugh but was too stunned. ‘Do people really do that?’

  ‘People certainly gamble all the time. But no, not many have the ability to turn it into a profession.’

  ‘But you do?’

  She nodded. ‘Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Well, yes, frankly.’

  ‘Good! That’s the way I like it. But with Lamb, the whole thing works.’

  ‘Really?’ Already he was beginning to dislike this Lamb fellow. ‘What’s so special about him?’

  ‘Well,’ she yawned, arching her back, ‘if I were to sit down at the tables, play all night and win, I’d probably end up dead or in jail. But with a partner, especially one like Lamb, we provide just the right amount of distraction and plausibility.’

  ‘You’re not plausible, then?’

  She gave him a look. ‘A woman is always conspicuous at a casino, especially if she wins. No, my job is distraction. And I do stick out, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘I had.’

  ‘Whereas Lamb looks as though he belongs at the tables. Knows how to talk to people.’

  Valmont folded his arms across his chest. ‘So, how exactly does it work, this association with you and Lamb?’

  ‘It varies. We have systems, codes in place. We play them, improvising on the feeling in the room. But the basic principal is simple. Lamb sits at the tables and plays. And drinks. Far too much. By the time I arrive he’s always down a great deal of money and too intoxicated to walk let alone cheat. To anyone watching us, I seem as though I’m a pretty little fool and he’s a drunkard. No one ever suspects that I’m the one who’s in control. In two hands, I can recoup all his losses. In three, I can put us ahead. We rarely stay for four hands but in four…’ She smiled. ‘In four, I’d push us too far and we’d be rumbled. Win little and often, unless you want to spend every night on the road. They call me his good luck charm. No one ever thinks that a girl could be that clever.’

  ‘And is he, Lamb… is he also your lover?’

  She snorted, laughing. ‘You make it sound so romantic!’

  Valmont felt his irritation rise; already he felt unreasonably possessive. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s not like that. And don’t pretend to be jealous. It doesn’t suit you.’ Standing, she stretched her arms high above her head. ‘It’s a business arrangement.
The truth is, he looked after me when I had nowhere to go. I owe him.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘How much? When is your debt paid?’ he demanded. She turned away from him and stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray. ‘That seems to be a matter of debate,’ she said quietly.

  He watched as she crossed the room, stepping back into her evening dress and pulling it up over her hips. ‘I need to get back to the tables. He’ll be losing now quite heavily, which is no bad thing.’

  ‘When will I see you?’

  ‘I’ll be around. Trust me, you won’t be able to miss me.’ She slipped on her sandals and picked up her evening bag. ‘In the meantime, I don’t want you to talk to anyone. Do you understand? No introducing yourself, no idle conversations by the pool, nothing. Allow your natural sullenness to thrive.’

  ‘Sullenness!’ He frowned. ‘I’m not sullen.’

  She smiled. ‘But that’s precisely what I want you to be.’ Sitting down on the end of the bed, she stroked his leg. ‘The first thing you need to understand about the wealthy and privileged is that they’re like children – they only want what they can’t have. If they knew you’d come to sell them something they’d demolish you before breakfast.’

  ‘Then what am I meant to do?’

  ‘Simple. Talk to no one. When someone comes towards you, walk the other way. These people are used to being fawned over – they not only expect it, they rely on it. If there’s one thing they can’t bear, it’s someone who isn’t paying them any attention. So, as far as they’re concerned, you want nothing more than to be left alone.’ She stood up. ‘Allow me to do the rest. And we will need to see a tailor. Immediately.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘I don’t have the money for a new wardrobe.’

  ‘Andre, the second thing you need to understand is that you’re not selling perfume – you’re selling yourself. The idea of you as an eccentric genius. You can’t afford to blend in – you must look distinctive.’ Hands on her hips. ‘How can I help you if you don’t take my advice?’

  Valmont stared at her. She was familiar and yet completely unknown to him. ‘You’re not the same girl at all.’

  Crossing the room, she opened the door. Light from the hallway illuminated her from behind; her face was shadowy, yet her black hair shone as though it was on fire.